Good Evening, Sherlock
by The Consulting Storyteller
Summary: Sequel for "Good Evening, Mary". Can be read as a stand alone, but it'll make more sense if you read "Good Evening, Mary" first. All you need to know about this fis is that I'm a sucker for happy endings. Tags for angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of mildly dubious consent. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. NOT BRITPICKED OR BETA'D, ALL MISTAKES ARE MINE.


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 **Notes:** SEQUEL FOR "GOOD EVENING, MARY". Can be read as a stand alone, but it'll make more sense if you read "Good Evening, Mary" first.

All you need to know about this sequel is that I'm a sucker for happy endings. You're warned...

Tags for angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of mildly dubious consent.

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. NOT BRITPICKED OR BETA'D SO ALL MISTAKES ARE MINE. If you see any, don't hesitate to report them.

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 **Good Evening Sherlock**

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Sherlock always woke up first.

He had finally taken the habit. He set his alarm one hour before John's, it gave him the necessary time to get ready. He shaved, put on make up, decided whether he curled his hair or not, then slipped on his blue dressing gown before heading to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, just in time for John to wake up. The kettle usually switched off at the moment John crossed the bedroom door. They ate together, he inquired about his day, when he'd be back. And when John left Baker Street, Sherlock busied himself in the flat, doing housework, tidying up, changing the bed linens. And when he had time, he put himself in front of the mirror and did make up tests, like a new lipstick, new nail polish, new hair dressing. Then he prepared dinner, and John went back from work, pleased by the smell and by the sight of Sherlock greeting him at the door. And at night, Sherlock pushed his face in the pillow to muffle his groans while John was growling the name that became his in his shoulders. _Mary Mary Mary Mary…_

That morning, Sherlock woke up very early, John having told him that he'd started work earlier because of a long day. He got up and got ready in accordance with a long well-oiled routine, then started cooking. Sherlock knew those long shifts at the clinic. They usually meant long working hours with almost non-existent breaks. He was already guessing the semblance of lunch, hastily devoured between two patients. So he prepared a hearty breakfast and, realising he had time, a sandwich with a fruit for lunch. John had so many times drummed the benefits of a balanced diet into him, he wouldn't let John neglect his own values.

John then went in the kitchen and sat down to eat, humming happily before his plate. He ate enthusiastically, then dressed up while Sherlock was doing the dishes. When he came out again, he went to Sherlock, kissed him on the cheek, then took his coat and left.

Sherlock listened to the rustle of the fabric, the tinkling of the keys, the slam of the door. The water was running in the sink, but he didn't hear it. He was rooted on the spot, horror stuck.

 _John?_

When John left for work, he always made the effort to kiss him goodbye. It could be on the forehead, on the cheek or on the mouth, according to circumstances. But what he never failed to do was putting his arm around his waist. He always put his arm around his waist when he kissed him.

This time, he just put his hand on his hip.

It was the first clue.

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Sherlock tried not to think about John's breach of his habits. Maybe he got distracted, maybe he was made anxious by the long shift awaiting him, but it was laughable. John already had to do such shifts, his habits had never been that shaken up so far.

So?

Need more data.

John came back from work exhausted after uninterrupted working hours, and greatly appreciated the hot bath Sherlock ran for him. He ate sparingly and went to bed. Sherlock lied down next to him, worry boring into his core.

After two weeks of calm, John left Baker Street again without putting his arm around his waist. Too distressed to calm down, Sherlock forgot his household chores, spending the day thinking through the incident. And when John came back that evening, nothing was ready. Sherlock rushed in the kitchen to make up for his oversight, waiting for a well-deserved remark, but John made none. Sherlock put on the table a cold dinner hastily made, John ate, gave him a kiss on the cheek and left to take a shower. That night, John kept his hands soberly put on his back. Usually, they were clenched in his buttocks, in his hips, his shoulders, his hair, or even around his wrists, pinning him against the mattress. This time they were just put on his back.

It was the second clue.

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Sherlock spent the following week in a state of worry he hadn't known since months. Sat in his armchair, he reviewed the last incoherences. John didn't put his hand around his waist any more when he kissed him. John didn't hold him how he used to in the intimacy of their bedroom. John didn't say anything any more at Sherlock's misdemeanours, which happened too often for Sherlock's taste. John just waited for Sherlock to fix them, without making any remark. John didn't look at him like before. Sherlock had noticed evasive looks, hesitant touches. Had he done something wrong?

 _John…_

In any case, John's behaviour revealed self-restraint. Embarrassment. He didn't touch him like before. Maybe he didn't want to touch him any more? Why wouldn't he want to touch him?

Sherlock felt a cold sweat run along his back. Did John not find him interesting any more? Why? Why wouldn't he find him interesting any more? He did everything he could, everything needed, he became the women John had always idolized, everything was perfect.

So what?

A terrible thought crossed his mind: maybe John started not to want him any more. Maybe he was starting to get bored with him. What if he left? What if he found someone else? What if the reason why John started not wanting him… was because he already found someone else?

 _No. No no no no no!_

Sherlock had to force himself to save the face that evening. He carefully dressed up and put on make up, cooked with loving care a meal he knew John would love.

 _Don't leave me, John. I love you, John. Look at me, I did everything you wanted, why are you leaving? Why are you leaving, John? Don't leave me, John, please._

But if John seemed to greatly appreciate the dinner and kissed Sherlock to thank him, his moves failed to hide his emotion. Sherlock tried as he could not to see the sadness. When they went to bed, John turned on his side of the bed. Left alone on his own, Sherlock spent a huge part of the night his eyes fixed on John, his shoulders, his back. Who could she possibly be?

 _John…_

And when, the morning after, the door closed on John leaving without a look, Sherlock did something he didn't do in thirty years.

He cried.

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It didn't take long for him to take a decision. Sherlock was convinced that if he didn't act fast, John would finally leave him.

It already started. He still didn't know who she was, but whoever she was, she already was very ahead of him. Maybe he should look in John's mobile phone, maybe he'd find a phone number, or a text. Tracking her down, he could find a name, a face. What could she have more than him?

Resolute, Sherlock took his coat. He started to hate that coat. The red coat of the woman he would never be. Unless he made one last effort.

He got in the cab, clutching a piece of paper in his hand. On this paper, the name and the address of the doctor he was going to.

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Sherlock came back to Baker Street with a sour face.

He should have done his research beforehand. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! He should have suspected it wouldn't be that easy, you don't undergo transition like you have a nose job. His mouth tensed up remembering the doctor's words. _Diagnosis… Mental health assessment… Treatments…_ What a waste of time! A private surgeon, maybe, would be faster, but the cost would certainly not be the same. And Sherlock didn't earn as much as he did before. Maybe he should pinch Mycroft's credit card, even if himself doubted the amount would go unnoticed…

Sherlock entered Baker Street, hearing Mrs Hudson in her living room. He went up the stairs, getting rid of his shoes. He hated stilettos, all the more since he was already tall enough and more than one people usually gave him the side look when he did the shopping at Tesco. He restlessly threw the shoes on the living room floor, and turned to take off his coat. He had to finish tidying up and then make dinner for tonight. When would he receive John's text that'd tell him he wouldn't be home for dinner, he wondered bitterly. Sherlock didn't know if he'd survive such a message. With a heavy heart, he rolled up his sleeves.

He planned to cook a joint of beef. John loved that. With stir-fried vegetables. And if he had enough eggs, he had time for a tiramisu.

Sherlock couldn't do any of that. He didn't even cross the kitchen doors. He froze, horror struck. A cold sweat suddenly ran along his back.

John.

John.

John was there. In the living room.

John was supposed to be at work.

Why wasn't he at work?

Did anything happen? John never left work unless he had to.

Sherlock looked over John's form. Tense, anxious, stricken. Sherlock's pupil dilated in fear. _No, no, no!_ Before him, John stayed upright, worried, guilty.

 _I'm sorry._

White as a sheet, Sherlock felt the ground swallow him. Motionless, all he could do was looking at John, unable to utter a single word.

 _I'm really sorry. I thought. I really thought._

Sherlock's blood ran cold. He let himself fall on the sofa, his legs suddenly weak. So, that was it? All those months of effort and sacrifice, all those months of self-denial, all of this so that one day… He felt his heart violently ripping in half.

 _No, no, no. John, don't leave me. Don't leave me. I did everything you wanted. Why don't you love me? Why can't you love me? Don't leave me, John, please…_

He couldn't bring himself to look into John's eyes. He had the feeling that if he did, he'd see the other one in the gleam of his pupils. Persistence of vision. He didn't want to see her, whoever she was, he wouldn't let himself see her shadow on his doctor's face. Tears fell freely on his cheeks, and Sherlock chased them away with the back of his hand, indifferent to the make up spreading out on his face.

 _Don't leave, John. I'll try my hardest. I promise to try my hardest. I can be better than her, give me more time. Please, John, give me just more time…_

John watched Sherlock crumble before him, a bit puzzled he had to admit. He looked at his tears, listened to his pleas, and suddenly, everything clicked into place. He thought back about Sherlock's recent behaviour, his thoughtfulness, the care given to his cooking, to his appearance. Did he really do all of this thinking that…

 _Oh, Sherlock…_

So he went to him, fell on his knees, then opened his arms and wrapped him in a profound embrace. _I'm really, really sorry_. Sherlock cried hot and bitter tears on his shoulder. _I'm sorry. It's my fault, I ruined everything._

His hand was softly stroking Sherlock's back who was crying in earnest, while he was whispering comforting words in his ear. _I'm not leaving, Sherlock, it's never been my intent to leave._

At those words, Sherlock's hiccups stopped and he sat up, his eyes rimmed red, his eye-liner like rivulets on his cheeks. John gently stroked his face, with a so sad and yet so reassuring smile. Then he turned away and reached for the coffee table. Sherlock noticed the products on it, and to his great surprise, he recognized the content of his vanity case.

Sherlock watched John take a pad of cotton wool, pour make-up remover on it, then turn toward him. He raised the pad, and put it on his face.

 _No, I'm not leaving, Sherlock. It's my fault, I'm sorry for everything. I'm really sorry._

The cleanser was cold on his skin, and smelled of aloe vera. John felt his stomach clench at the scent. How many times did he smelled it on another woman's face, how many times did he feel his heart race before this fragrance, so _her_ , so unique of the woman he called his wife? So unique of the woman he cried so hard for, that she turned him into a monster?

And while he cleaned off the make up on Sherlock's bathed in tears face, while he purified him, while he erased the marks left by the woman he forced him to become, he remembered.

He remembered their first kiss, inebriated, clumsy. He remembered his coarse satisfaction at the detective's confused face.

He remembered their first time, erratic, violent. His remembered Sherlock's tense shoulders, his hands clenched on the headboard, his cries muffled by the pillow while he had his fingers sunk in his hips, savagely pounding him.

He remembered the dim light in the bedroom, just enough to reveal the pale skin he wounded with his teeth and nails. He remembered the sweet heart he wounded with a name that wasn't his.

He remembered the smell of fruits in his hair, the selfish feeling that took him at that moment, smelling the so familiar scent.

He remembered the blond locks, mistreated by his cruel fist.

He remembered the crimson lips, assaulted by his blind lust.

He remembered the silence, that didn't dare say its name, only broken by his pitiful jerky growls.

He remembered the violin, he remembered the test tubes, he remembered a whole life, a magnificent genius, swept aside, gagged by the awful name whose each sighs was like a new stab in the back.

While gently putting the cotton pad on Sherlock's face, he remembered all of it. And even more.

If John could have thrown himself up, he would have done it.

 _I'm sorry. I'm really sorry._

Little by little, the pale complexion came back to life, reappearing under the beige mask. The eye-liner disappeared from the eyes, freeing the extraordinary multicoloured pupil. The fake red wore off, letting see the cupid's bow. John couldn't resist the desire to give it a kiss.

Sherlock reappeared, superb, unique. But John still couldn't conceal a poor smile seeing the plucked eyebrows, extravagantly effeminate in the middle of those masculine features. John kissed each good bye. His hands clenched a bit in the detective's shoulders, stricken by emotion. Sherlock took them in his, kissing the joints. John noticed then the nail polish. He let go a soft "oh!" then turned toward the coffee table. He took a new cotton pad, then opened the nail polish remover bottle.

John frowned before the smell, but he took Sherlock's fingers one by one, and rubbed off the make up from his nails. Sherlock had patiently put his hands flat before him, letting the good doctor do as he pleased. John then took little scissors, and cut off the nails too long for his taste. He had often seen Sherlock take care of them, trimming, filing, varnishing them. He had always looked at him with this awe he felt toward women who knew how to take care of themselves, watching him put on the colours with a steady hand.

He cut off the nails without a single remorse.

He took Sherlock hands, assessing his work, and kissed them. Then he made him stand up, and led him to the bathroom.

In the narrow room, John made Sherlock sit on the edge of the bathtub. He looked at him with tenderness, and ran his hand through his blond hair. Sherlock noticed then the hair dye on the edge of the washbasin.

John was sure to achieve it. He carefully read the booklet, and it didn't seem that difficult. He had already prepared the mixture, so he made Sherlock bend backward over the bathtub, and turned on the taps. He wet and wiped his hair, then put on latex gloves.

Sherlock stayed quiet all along the process, and John tried hard not to think that was because he was used to it. A bit of product ran on his forehead and on one of his ears, but John wasn't disappointed by the result. He preferred to have put too much than too little. He didn't want to see the shadow of a blond hair on Sherlock any more, never, not even for a case. The only colour he wanted to see on him starting now was the standard but oh! so loved dark brown, so rich, so _Sherlock_. He knew he'd have to tackle the subject.

He rinsed the hair, and looked at the locks now brown again, stuck on the detective's temples. He winded one around his finger, and it left a dark streak around his phalanx. John realised when he towelled his hair dry that he forgot a bit of product on the nape of his neck, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He dried the hair, rubbing vigorously, and brushed them.

Sherlock let John do, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't utter a word, passively obeying to John requests, bending forward of backward when necessary. He felt the small burn of the product on his skin, then John fingers gently massaged his scalp while rinsing his hair. He looked at John's face, focused, contrite, a little frown on his lips and forehead. He wanted to erase the worry on his good doctor's face so much, he wanted to put his hand on his cheek, and whisper that everything was fine, everything would be fine. _My John. My sweet John…_

And when the lock remained in the hair curler, John suddenly lost his nerve.

He had wanted to give Sherlock his mad curls back, he wanted to see the locks dance on his forehead. He had switched on the hair curler Sherlock used to curl his blond hair. He had taken a lock, had winded it around the iron like said on the booklet, then he had waited. He didn't know what he had done wrong, but when had opened the hair curler to slide it out of the curl, the lock had remained stuck on it. John had stayed few seconds motionless, the hair curler in hand, speechless. He had looked at the hair curler, at the lock slowly smoking on it, he had looked at Sherlock, his messy hair, the orphan tuft of hair sticking up, his eyes fixed on the perfidious iron, almost shocked, almost comical.

Unable to control himself, shaken up by nerves, John burst out laughing.

The hair curler clattered on the ground, and John suddenly opened his arms, wrapping him into an embrace. His nose was assaulted by scents, the hair dye, Sherlock, perfume, _that_ perfume, so wrong, _so wrong_. He moved aside, seeing Sherlock's ridiculous pyjamas. Without thinking, he turned on the taps, dragging Sherlock under the spray with him. He pulled at their clothes, without regard for the pyjamas he properly tore out. He grabbed the bottle of shower gel, and filled Sherlock with a fresh and minty fragrance. Not smelling that scent again, not again… He rinsed him, burying his nose in his neck, breathing deeply. _I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you…_

They fell in the bed completely soaked, throwing drops of water everywhere. John held Sherlock tight against him, desperately, as if he feared to see him suddenly disappear. He didn't want to think about those last few months, he didn't want to think about all those nights of pain and humiliation. He showered his body with kisses, kissing each square of his skin. Sherlock was shivering under him, his flesh flushed, his lips sealed over an ecstasy he suppressed far too long.

 _Don't hold back, I want to hear you._

 _But Mary…_

 _You're not Mary. You're Sherlock, and I love you._

And he finally entered him, and it was magnificent, and the last months dissolved, disappearing into thin air, like a forgotten nightmare.

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The following morning, Sherlock still had to go to the hairdresser, John's goodwill not having been sufficient. He had to dye his hair properly and, John made sure of it, curl his hair. Sherlock then spent the afternoon setting up his website again, file after file. He had nothing but praise for his mind palace, which saved everything.

The morning after, John called Lestrade, asking for a case for Sherlock. The good DI was a bit surprised by his call, but accepted the sick leave John gave him as an explanation to justify Sherlock's absence for the last few months. On the contrary, he was very pleased to learn of his recovery. Unfortunately, he didn't have any case on, but if Sherlock was willing, he could still provide few cold cases. John's heart swelled with gratitude at those words.

John, remained at Baker Street, took advantage of Sherlock's visit at the Yard to put his last businesses in order. He plundered the wardrobes, retrieving anything bearing Mary's name. The clothes Sherlock had put on, the perfumes he had worn, his – no – _the_ make up he used, shampoo, shower gel, deodorant, even the hair curler, everything was piled up in big rubbish bags. He found the ring, in its little box. Sherlock had had to ask for a size adjustment to complete his role. A guilty shiver ran along John's spine. He threw the ring away without a look for it. The Emmaus lorry that came to collect the bags thanked him profusely.

Then he went up to his old bedroom, where he knew Sherlock had stocked his old life. He placed the microscope in the middle of the kitchen table, the Bunsen burner just behind, then arranged the rest of the equipment, test tubes, vials, pipettes, the multicoloured bottles of chemicals which, there was a time, made him grind his teeth, but were now like finding an old friend after a long separation. And in the end, to complete his work, he paid a visit to Molly, to ask for some samples for Sherlock to experiment on. The young pathologist, stunned by his request, and John couldn't blame her given his past reticence on the matter, let him have a hepatic liver. John put it in the vegetable compartment of the fridge.

And when Sherlock came back that evening, dressed in his long black coat, his blue scarf around his neck, his curls wild on his forehead, he noticed the lab in the kitchen, he smelled chinese takeaway, but above all, he saw John waiting for him, with shinning eyes, as if he was the most beautiful thing in the world. The doctor went to him, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his lips made cold by the evening air:

"Good evening, Sherlock"

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 **Note:** And they lived happily ever after!

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